


Torrential Rainfall for Us Little People

by lookoutlovers22



Series: Six Months [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, F/M, Not Canon Compliant, Sane Tom Riddle, Tom Riddle is Not Voldemort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-10
Updated: 2020-07-10
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:08:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25177447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lookoutlovers22/pseuds/lookoutlovers22
Summary: She met him at a grocery store, six months after she fled the country.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Tom Riddle
Series: Six Months [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2061789
Comments: 6
Kudos: 59





	Torrential Rainfall for Us Little People

**Author's Note:**

> Hello hello hello, I got this idea from a YouTube video I saw. It was a scene from the series "Normal People" and I thought it was so beautiful and sad and—I wanted to do a spin on it, with the Tomione pairing. I hope y'all cry, or something.
> 
> The YouTube video: https://youtu.be/xusk02qYiCI
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter, just some of the plot.
> 
> It has also not been reread and checked for errors (as per usual)

She saw him at a grocery store.

It was a little thing, nestled between the apothecary and a clothing store at Diagon Alley, with a single cash register and a plethora of shelves containing produce and meat, and he was paying for his things. She stared at him from her aisle, and she couldn't breath, couldn't think, and she saw him at a grocery store. It was the first time she saw him since she moved out of London, to the country side in Italy with her little fortune and fields and acres of grass and trees ahead of her.

He was as gorgeous as she remembered, curly hair styled neatly, falling unto one perfect eyebrow, skin falling on sharp, high cheekbones and a strong lithe body hidden within dark blue casual robes. She knew she should have hid, should have disappeared behind the rows and rows of shelves, that it would have been easier than if he was to see her.

Their breakup wasn't abrupt, it wasn't her leaving in the middle of the night with her belongings and her cat with a letter on his nightstand or her slamming the front door and heading for the country side in the middle of an argument. It was slow, and painful—the type of slow that meant that what wounds they have had not yet healed, probably would never heal. The type of slow that meant that after six months out of the country, she thought she was over it, over them, until she saw him a grocery store, still as she remembered him, and promptly forgot to breathe.

They separated over months, her packing her things into bags and boxes and buying a cottage and saying _I just need a little bit of time, just a little bit of time,_ and him knowing that 'a little bit of time' meant that she probably wouldn't be coming back, probably only had a one way ticket and the little cottage that she bought with her money that was lined with books and no memories, nothing to remember him by.

Because of an argument. Because they said some things that they shouldn't have, because sometimes love is not enough when little things, stupid fucking arguments turn into big arguments and turn into catastrophes that make you move out of the country and live a life of seclusion.

And then memory after memory seemed to flow over her in waves, some she's forgotten over the weeks and some she still remembers day after day after day, the type of memories that stay with you until you inevitably die. So she stared at him, and remembered the way he looked in the morning, hair strewn all over his face and face calm in his sleep, and the way he smiled at the cat when he thought she wasn't looking, his gait as he walked down the pebbled path to her parent's home, hands in the pockets of his coat and breath leaving in white puffs as he exhaled.

She stared at him as he turned his head to the side, and with her throat closing up and her clutching the collar of her shirt like it was her heart, he looked at her.

He saw her in a grocery store.

He looked at her with surprised, accusing eyes, and the familiarity of his gaze did not take her by surprised. She knew this gaze—knew that if he saw her again, it would be with this gaze. She wasn't surprised because she knew him, and knew him well, knew him for years, knew him like the back of her hand, knew the way he danced with her when they were seventeen, at the graduation ball at Hogwarts years ago, knew him from six months ago when he looked at her from King's Cross as she boarded the train that would take her away from all of it, just staring at her and not begging her to stay or begging her not to go but just staring at her.

Hesitantly, she walked over to the register, waiting for her turn in the line. She tore her gaze away from him forcefully, and resigned herself to stare at her shoes. She felt like she didn't have the right to speak to him, for his was so understanding the day she left. He would, if he so wished, speak to her.

She could still feel his stare burning the side of her cheek, and she looked away, to the shelves lining the little store, not meeting his gaze. She felt little in this moment, like she was crumbling to pieces, because she was so close that she could touch him, feel him in her hands like before, and say the things she should have said. And would it be so hard, just to talk to him, just to look at him like this, just to know him as she did before, sitting on the couch on a Saturday morning as the torrential rain fell down for people like them, littering the streets with water and cold temperatures, as they huddled for warmth in front of the fire, hot chocolates in their hands as he kissed her forehead. Forever ago.

"Hermione..." he spoke, and she felt the damn in her eyes burst, a traitorous tear streaming down the side of her face. And she felt herself clutching on a precipice, somewhere only they knew, to help her self from falling ( _falling falling_ ) to somewhere no one would find her.

She furiously wiped the tear away from her face, and looked at him, and she wanted to scream, wanted to scream that she wished and wished and wished and that she could never forget him—could never forget him because she was his in the way that he was so irrevocably hers.

"Hermione." He repeated, and the cashier told him the amount that he needed to pay, and he tore his eyes away from her enough for him to count the amount of galleons he needed to give to the damned man, and then he looked at her again.

And then she was falling ( _falling falling_ ) again.

* * *

He was waiting for her outside, in the rain of the London downpour, dry despite of the rain that was falling. And she knew then that he would not stop until they've talked, until they've settled whatever it was between them, and she wished, now more than ever, that she never went back to London for stupid Ron Weasley's wedding to Lavender Brown, even if they were best friends, even if she had frown to like Lavender Brown.

His posture was straight, always has been straight, as Hermione went out to stand beside him in the rain, looking at him and staring because she didn't know what had changed, if he still felt the same, if there was somebody else now, somebody who wasn't her in the way that it was always her, always her next to him at parties and galas and dinners out, or on the green couch in their old apartment, the way it always was since they were eleven, on the Hogwarts Express, talking about all the books they read and this new world of magic that they found out they belonged to.

"You didn't tell me you were in town." He said softly, not looking at her. "Some... warning," he coughed. "some warning would have been nice."

And even though she knew what he meant, she said, "Warning?" in a disbelieving voice that didn't quite come out right, too high pitched and strained.

And even though he noticed the weird tone of her voice, he said, "You know what I mean." and looked at her. "You—"

"I'm only here for the wedding." She said quickly, looking up to stare at him. "I didn't plan to—to see you."

She said the last part softly, looking down at the ground and swallowing the tightness in her throat. He laughed harshly, head shaking and face imperceptibly contorted in pain, eyes closing. "Of course you didn't, I wasn't expecting you to come back, was I?" He said angrily, like a sob was being ripped out his throat. "This is stupid." He spat, but didn't move to leave.

"I don't think it is." Hermione said softly. "I don't think so."

"You left." He said softly. "You left."

"Don't pretend like you couldn't have stopped me." Hermione said angrily. "Don't pretend like—like you couldn't have stopped me from leaving after that _stupid_ fucking fight—like—like you couldn't have done so many things like—"

"Why is it always my fault?" He said in a pained scream. "It wasn't all my fault, Hermione, and you _knew_ it. You could have stayed and talked with me and you could have—could have stayed!"

She was crying now, tears streaming down her face that was contorted in sadness, cheeks blotchy and red, and Tom looked at her through the haze of water droplets, hands on his grocery bags.

"I don't—I can't—" and she couldn't help feeling like she had fucked it all up again, like her heart was being ripped to shreds again, head splitting and nails bitten to stubs. "Tom..."

"You could have stayed and we could have talked about it—it was just a little thing, that turned into a big thing that ruined _everything_ , it ruined _everything_. And I loved you—" Tom bit back a sob, and Hermione shuddered under his cold gaze. "I love you. I still love you, I don't want to love you, I just—"

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry..." Hermione was heaving at this point.

"I have loved you since we were eleven—I will love you until after I die because loving you is so irrevocably tied to my being, every fiber of my soul and every fucking ounce of me is so tied to you—do you understand? And I can deal with you, any part of you, all parts of you if you would just—just talk to me!" He drops his bags to the cold pebbled path.

"You can't just say things like that Tom, not after—" Hermione bit back a sob, "Not after you—you told me those things, not after I told you that—that—"

"Stay with me." He said, earnestly. He cradled her face in his hands, and she felt so little again, the shape of his hands perfect and so familiar on her face. "We can—we can work it out, and we can be together if you would just _stay with me_ , please, please, please stay."

**Author's Note:**

> HELLO! If you've just come across this story, then hello! I am writing this end note on Wednesday, July 29th of 2020 to announce that I will be making this into a short story!
> 
> Wild right? But still, thank you for reading this! I love you and stay safe!


End file.
